


Systems (Six Stories)

by MaldaineD



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: M/M, a touch of body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25012408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaldaineD/pseuds/MaldaineD
Summary: This is a collection of six short stories across multiple, possible pasts, presents, and futures.  The first five are based on each of the five love languages.  The last is a continuation of my Sedulous story line, a more definitive answer of what I think Chris and Piers's actual love languages are for each other.  I hope one, two, or all of them resonate with you somehow.Happy July 1st.  Happy Nivanfield Day.
Relationships: Nivanfield - Relationship, Piers Nivans/Chris Redfield
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	Systems (Six Stories)

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be twenty pages at the max, and it was supposed to be a simple collection of stories about the five love languages, but then it became a weird thing about cycles, systems, fandom, and the way fandom brings new patterns to familiar stories, and how we can tell countless stories about characters, some of whom don't appear in much media at all. I hope that these stories are at least fun, and that the last story is effective even if the narrative device doesn't quite land. The stories are all named after songs that I've included links to (another little jab at fandom and fic, those old song recs that went with fic back in the day).
> 
> The first five are all just simple imaginings. Fun and not so fun little plots on their relationship.
> 
> The last story is a direct continuation of Swell and Spark, so if you haven't read those yet, the last story might not make as much sense to you, but I think it reads fine without them? The last story also draws elements from the rest, and bleeds the collection together in a way.
> 
> Either way, thank you for reading. Thank you for letting me a part of the Nivanfield fandom. I love these two characters, and I hope my work brings you a little joy this Nivanfield day.

*Feel Good Lost - Reprise or: Windsor Knot / A Slip of Paper*

[Feel Good Lost - Reprise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cQJdrdszVc)

Fold across, around the back, pull the flap through, tighten, and adjust. The knot didn’t look quite right. Untied, tried again. The back strand was too long and showed below the front. One more time. Fold across, around the back, pull the flap through, tighten, and adjust.

Better.

The paper in his breast pocket made a soft noise each time his arm moved across the jacket. A gentle reminder that it was there. Good. He was nervous, and he didn’t want to forget it. Nervous enough that the tie still didn’t look right. Maybe he should just use a different tie?

Chris walked to the closet. There weren’t many other ties to choose from. He wasn’t really known for getting dressed up, though he was impressed he still remembered how to make a windsor knot. He had a little laugh, about the small things remembered through tough times: hazel eyes, talk of baseball, tie knots. Well, he’d already fucked up the knot three times, so could he consider it remembered? A change in tie wasn’t going to fix the mistake. The problem was the knot. The problem was his shaking hands. The problem was….

In the mirror: Fold across, around the back, pull the flap through, tighten, and….

“It looks good. See,” Piers Nivans said.

“You think?”

“For you, sure. I’d be worried if it was perfect.”

Hands across his shoulders, brushing lint and smoothing the fabric. Gentle breaths, gentle looks, a gentle smile. A deep inhale was the cue. Chris inhaled. A sharp and long exhale from behind. Chris let it out.

Again. And again. Better. Hands a little less shaky. Glances in the mirror held longer than they should. Vague but important. Far away.

“You’ve got the paper?”

“I do,” Chris responded. He tapped his breast pocket.

“Tie a little to the left.”

Slight tug; barely a wiggle. A little pull for comfort. The tie looked centered now.

“Just follow along with your finger so you don’t lose your place. Look up and make eye contact. Be yourself. Why worry? I’ll be with you the whole time.”

“You promise?”

A knock on the door to the bathroom. Chris turned to look behind him. A woman with her hair pulled back, a modest black dress, a little shock in her eyes.

“Do I look okay?” Chris asked.

“Yeah,” Claire said.

“You just saying that ‘cause you’re my sister?”

“Only a little. I promise.”

She smoothed the fabric at his shoulders. She looked the tie up and down but didn’t adjust it. 

“Got your notes?”

He tapped his breast pocket, a little perturbed that everyone knew he’d forget. He replaced it with pride that he hadn’t.

Claire flipped the switch in the bathroom, led him out the front door and locked it. They got in the car and started driving downtown. Every fifteen minutes, Chris would pat his breast pocket to make sure he hadn’t left the paper at home.

They were an hour early to Piers’s funeral, enough time to read through the eulogy once or twice more. Chris wanted it as close to perfect as possible.

*Solovey or: In the Belfry*

[Solovey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhI4NA1rEY0)

The splatter of rain echoed damp chants through the stone, up the stairs and ringing through the belfry. The old steeple did its best, but it moaned in the wet, in the cold, in the dark, the old coiffers below long past their breaking points. With each breath, Piers Nivans pushed the sounds out. Right eye closed, he narrowed his focus down the scope, his left eye taking in what it could over the roar from the rain. It came with such ferocity that he could barely make out the shapes across the town square.

"You still have eyes on me?" a voice rang through the communication device in his ear.

"Barely, Captain. You're an outline at best. I don't like this," Piers responded.

"If you're up there, I'm not worried."

A slight smile tugged across his right cheek. It didn't make him feel any better, but it made him forget the touch of fear that hung somewhere in the back of his mind. Letting out another breath, Piers traced the outline of Chris Redfield about a thousand yards away. In normal conditions, anything that came their way would be simple, but in these conditions? Piers wasn't willing to take any chances. Especially when Chris was putting himself on the line like this.

"I've got some movement to my right. Can you see anything?"

Piers leaned to the right and tagged the buildings, but couldn't see what Chris was talking about. When he sent a negative back, Chris confirmed and continued moving. 

Another creak from somewhere below. It was loud enough that Piers stirred, gave a little shutter, and then turned to look behind him. That sudden but unshakable feeling of being watched cascaded over the hairs on the back of his neck. Checking corners, a glance to the stairs, Piers softened the stress in his shoulders when nothing presented itself. He returned to his position. Maybe he was just being paranoid.

"Captain? I can't see you," Piers said. A long pause before, "Captain, come back, over."

"I need cover!" Chris shouted.

Piers scanned the area again, in the downpour, he saw the slight outline of someone. Something bigger, something he didn't want to know the look of, started to lumber towards the smaller figure.

"Drop, Captain!"

The smaller shadow hit the ground as Piers let out his breath and pulled back on the trigger. The Anti-Material rifle howled as the shot flew true and smashed into whatever was skulking towards Chris. The creature immediately dropped, the rain turning to steam when it hit the smoking barrel.

Again, silence. Piers called through the comms, but Chris didn’t come back.

Piers stood from his vantage and moved to another spot in the belfry, an attempt at a better view. If something else was after Chris, if he couldn't speak, maybe Piers could get eyes on it and have a better idea of what they were up against. All he could see was grey and static.

"Shit," Piers said. 

That stir, the crack, a little shift that sounded like it came from something else, not the building. Piers turned again. And still there was nothing but the wind and the rain and squelch from his clothes soaked through. Moving the rifle to his back, he drew his sidearm and took a few steps towards the stairs. They were old, wooden, and several were cracked. If someone was walking up them, he'd hear, but it wasn't sitting right, the feeling he couldn't shake.

The unmistakable skitter from above, Piers trained his handgun towards the peak of the steeple as an eight-legged monstrosity detached itself from the ceiling and plummeted towards him. Diving out of the way, he skidded to a stop and drew his gun, firing three times before he moved away from his position. Wherever he went, there was a long drop down, and the only way out was now blocked by something, a creature covered in a shiny black carapace.

The red mark along its bulging back was enough for him to know it was some kind of hybrid, too humanoid to be all spider, but its twisted, cracked, and broken maw showed several rows of twitching fangs. The liquid dripping from them didn't look like moisture from the rain.

"So, you've been watching me?" Piers said, his eyes looking to his left and right. Trapped.

Gun extended and a sharp breath out, he fired off four rounds in rapid succession. Two legs ripped off, a hit to the side, and a few teeth knocked out with splattered green blood across the ground. The legs were intentional, but the side and mouth weren’t. The thing was fast, and it dropped low, leg over leg it pushed itself along the floor, the carapace grinding on the stone. It was loud enough to drown out the rain, and the motion caught Piers off guard. As it grew closer, with nowhere to go but off the side of the belfry, he steeled himself and pushed off the ground as hard as he could. Piers dove over the creature as it used two of its legs to catch itself, and then another two flipped it back so it was staring at him again.

Opening its mouth, it heaved out a spun sac. The webbing immediately ripped open and three malformed spiderlings sprung to life.

"Disgusting," Piers said, a few shots fired off and two of the spawn dead.

Dropping the magazine, he pulled another from his belt and loaded it into his gun. He didn't have time to ready his rifle, and if he missed, it could be disastrous. He never missed, but now wasn't the time to start. But wait?

In the second it took him to reload his gun, the infinitesimal moment he wasn't looking at the thing, it was gone, and so was the smaller abomination. Up in the rafters, down to the ground, even into the old bell that was hanging in the middle of the room, nothing. 

A creak on the stairs. Piers spun, eyes connecting with someone carefully treading across the broken boards that led up to the crown of the building.

"Chris!" Piers shouted, a sigh of relief right after.

A little blood on his face and a nasty looking scratch down his arm, Chris gave a brief smile before, "Piers! Behind you!"

Piers felt it before he could turn, several sticky appendages grabbing onto him and slinging him across the room. The rain pelted him as he let loose his gun and reached up, barely able to grab the edge of the belfrey as he dangled several stories in the inky night. The stones were worn and slick, and he could feel his hands slipping.

A shotgun blast ricocheted through the air, only the tips of his fingers still holding on, and then the pressure was gone, the feel of the stone vanished.

"Gotcha!" Chris screamed.

Legs spread, the width of the opening, not too wide, but all the weight of him and Piers depending on his locked ankles. The wounded arm didn't look too steady, but it held. Controlled, deep breaths and the cold realization that they were the only two here.

"You've got to let me go," Piers said, looking up at him.

"Like hell I do, Piers," Chris responded, adjusting his grip slightly. "I'm not letting go."

Piers gazed into the abyss below him. He knew where the ground was, but in the rain, in the dark, he couldn't see it. It was still there. No doubt about it.

"You have no leverage. You've got to let me go, Captain. If you don't, we'll both die," Piers tried to reason.

"No," a pause before, "you've got to climb."

"Climb?"

Pain all across his face, his body no doubt screaming in the position he was in, Chris nodded. Looking into his eyes, Piers could see it. He kicked his legs, and fingers grabbed the fabric by Chris's shoulder, and he hosted himself up a little further. The shirt and bulletproof vest held well enough, but the longer he was there, the more he could feel them slip down Chris’s chest. Faster, he needed to go faster.

Without swinging, doing so could force Chris's foot out of place, he reached up and grabbed onto Chris's belt. Piers held tight to his waist for a moment before looking to see where he could grab on his pants. There was no leverage, no way for him to use his feet to help hoist him up to the edge.

"Come on, you've got this," Chris said.

Piers grabbed a chunk of the fabric near Chris's left knee and pulled as far left with it as he could, trying to keep Chris's foot anchored where it was. Again with the right, one mistake and they'd both plummet. A sharp grab, he was able to get his hand behind the sole of Chris's boot, and then the other. What strength was left in his arms, and with as much bracing as Chris’s now free hands could give, Piers gritted his teeth and pulled himself up and over the edge. Spinning on his ass, he planted his feet next to Chris's, grabbed his boots, and started to use his legs and core to pull Chris up. When his waist was across the threshold, the two of them worked together to get the rest of Chris up and over.

Both out of breath, both shaking, both barely able to lift their arms, they stared at each other. A nod before Piers stood and extended a hand to help Chris stand. As he tried to give him a pull, the wet stones caused him to slip, and Piers fell back hitting his head slightly, and Chris landed on top of him with a thud, the wind knocked out of Piers in a loud gasp.

"You okay?" Chris asked.

Piers laughed as he rubbed the back of his head, a little knot already growing where he smacked it on the ground. No blood though, so that was worth something. But there was something else, the weight on top of him, the calm it brought almost immediate.

Piers's breath returned, his eyes connecting with Chris's, the subtle, 'thanks,' he was able to get out, his cheeks feeling warm, and his gaze averted quickly. They'd flirted plenty, but this, the contact, the touch against so much of him, and how long he just stayed, looking, it felt....

"Chris!" Piers shouted as he used all his weight to roll Chris over as the tiny spiderling fell with a splat to the ground. Piers spied Chris's shotgun lying just to the right. Getting to his feet, he grabbed it, cocked it, and as the spiderling gave a jump towards the two, he fired a spray, and the creature was eviscerated. Sticky green ooze coated the floor.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, a wide grin on his face, Chris said, "Nice shot," a kiss on the lips and then, "and a good climb, too."

Piers stooped down to pick up the side arm he'd lost earlier to hide his obvious embarrassment. Chris already started down the steps.

"Captain," Piers said.

Chris stopped to look at him.

"Nice catch."

A bite of his lower lip, Chris gave a wink and started down the stairs, careful not to fall through some of the rotten planks. It was a long way down to fall head over heels.

*More of the Same or: The Galleria of Yet Another Madman*

The trap sprung! The door slammed shut, grinding noises pervaded, and the ceiling started lurching towards the floor. The pictures on the wall flapped back and forth, the banging only amplifying the mechanical whir from the ceiling. Piers Nivans covered his ears, shock obvious, the situation taking him by surprise. He stared at the ceiling as it creeped ever closer.

“Snap out of it, Piers,” Chris Redfield said as he started looking around the room. “There’s got to be a way to stop it. There always is.”

“Always?” Piers asked.

“This happens to me every few years. I’m used to it, and you’ll get used to it, too. Panicking isn’t the solution, though!”

Chris understood. He used to be military. They certainly don’t train you for this shit. How could someone be prepared for something like this? Perhaps something to add to the BSAA basic training. Happened enough to warrant a change in curriculum.

When he couldn’t find an obvious switch, he started listening at the walls. Maybe they could find the mechanism somewhere. The estate was old enough, and it wasn’t like the maniacs that owned these places had repair men coming to make sure their trapped art gallery was running properly. What was the time frame for an inspection for a mechanism like this? How often were people actually trapped in these rooms when he and Jill were on vacation?

“I hear it, Captain! It’s over here,” Piers shouted and pointed at the wall.

“Shoot the wall out, keep the grouping as tight as possible,” Chris commanded.

Piers switched from the rifle to his MP-AF and began to fire a tight square around where the grinding slipped through the wall. Every time he heard a PING! he adjusted positions and kept outlining the shape of the motor. Reloaded, staring at the ceiling getting closer, teeth clenched, and a little sweat at his temples.

“You’re doing fine. Keep going,” Chris guided.

When an outline was made, Chris used his combat knife to get some leverage and pull the damaged part from the wall. It fell away and smashed against the floor. The engine was as old as he’d expected it to be, fully mechanical. 

“Give me your gun,” Chris said.

“Use yours,” Piers responded.

“I need mine.”

“I’m a better shot than you, and you’re better hand-to-hand.”

“I like my gun.”

“Yours is standard issue. Both of mine are custom made.”

“I’m the commanding officer here,”

“And my arguments are better,” Piers said.

When Chris couldn’t disagree, he removed his gun from the holster and carefully placed it in between the rusty gears. The gun was taken in by the teeth and mangled, but it caused the motor to hiss and moan before it was broken beyond repair. The ceiling jolted, fell about an inch further down near where the motor was situated, but it kept still everywhere else. Seemingly, the room was safe, aside from them still being locked inside of it.

[More of the Same](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7koIUZsr1k)

Piers handed over his MP-AF and the remaining magazine he had.

“Thought you were a better shot,” Chris said.

“An Anti-Material Rifle isn’t exactly perfect for tight hallways in an estate, but I’ll be able to handle it. Sorry for the insubordination.”

“If it’s the worst you do, we’re going to be just fine,” Chris said as he gave Piers a pat on the shoulder. “Now, come on. There’s got to be a way out of this room. It’s going to have something to do with the paintings on the wall. I don’t know why the shadowy owners of evil pharmaceutical companies are always so obsessed with shit like this, but they are, and we’ve got to figure it out before something else comes and finds us.”

The room was an odd shape, probably so that it could accommodate a mechanism that would make the ceiling come crashing down. A little sitting area was in the middle of the room, and there were about twenty paintings hung along the walls. All of them were different styles, time periods, and subject matters. Track lighting illuminated them, though none of them were labeled. The ceiling had come close, but it missed the paintings by about a foot.

“Admittedly, there’s usually a theme. These seem pretty random,” Chris said.

Piers turned from studying one of the paintings on the opposite side of the room. He walked over to Chris and said, “What do you mean?”

“In the Spencer mansion, it was stained glass. There was one room with a bunch of paintings along a stairwell, but thankfully those weren’t trapped. There was a zombie just waiting for me when I opened the door into the hallway though. Plenty of other paintings around, too, but they were all similar. Very baroque. Had to open a clock by matching the hands to a painting, now that I think about it.”

“That sounds, um, complicated, sir.”

“Yeah, there was some weird stuff at the prison Claire was held at, and the mansion in Antarctica certainly had its fair share of pieces. Apparently, Claire had to light a fireplace and a gem burned through a painting of some guy being tortured. Jill told me that the old clock tower in Raccoon City had some time-themed painting puzzle, too. Another day, another madman’s gallery to deal with. Apparently, it’s a theme upper-class assholes like to keep.”

“I read some of your earlier reports. Masks, emblems, rooms with giant mirrors, but I didn’t go back to Raccoon City. Only heard some stories.”

“Then there’s that,” Chris said pointing to one of the paintings. “It’s a Titian, but it’s signed. The original is in a gallery in New York City. I’ve seen it, and it isn’t signed. And that’s a Chaim Soutine it’s next to. They’re centuries and movements apart. I get the feeling these people find themselves quite clever and sophisticated, but they don’t know the first thing about art.”

Piers leaned slightly and looked at the piece before, “You sure know a lot about this stuff, Captain.”

Chris looked up at the painting: “Le Boeuf.” He remembered the first time he saw it. Living in Chicago for a brief time, right before he and Jill were going to Russia, before T.A.L.O.S, the end of Umbrella, and the genesis of the BSAA. Claire had come to visit. They spent some time together. She was still young, trying her best to figure out what life looked like after Raccoon City, Rockfort, Steve. Quality time felt strange then, like it wasn’t afforded to them. They’d seen too much, so walking around a museum felt unearned. There was still so much terror, so much work to be done. They both knew too much to spend time walking and staring at art.

When he saw it then, his neck tightened, jaw clenched, eyes red and swollen. A jolt of something buried. It was a reminder, flesh picked clean on Forest, a chunk from Kenneth’s neck, the way Richard’s arm looked ravaged with venom. The stained glass room with the crows squawking overhead. That feeling of being stuck in a maze, but every dead end held someone known, someone close, and someone massacred.

“Captain? You okay?” Piers asked.

“Yeah, I am. I found out I didn’t quite make it out of the Spencer Mansion unscathed because of this painting. It reminded me I needed to get a little help, and so I did, mostly at Claire’s insistence. They said one of the best things I could do was try to work through wherever my anxieties came from by digging into them. I didn’t know why this painting set me off exactly, so I kept coming back to it, and I kept finding other things that did it. Weirdly, there was this old church near an apartment I lived in for a little while, and the stained glass windows would set it off. After going, and digging, I realized that I started learning and appreciating.”

Chris saw Piers tilt his head to look at the Soutine piece. Piers was honest, direct, and said he didn’t get it. He ‘rightly’ pointed out that it was just a messy painting of rotten meat.

“Yeah, but the color of it matches with the color of the painting over there,” Chris said as he pointed to a piece across the way.

Investigating it, he lifted it up and found that it was attached to an adjustable hook. He directed Piers to remove the painting across from the Soutine piece and he replaced it. The hook moved with the weight of the painting and locked into place. Clearly, the way out of the room was something to do with the color and weight of the paintings and what they were across from.

“The Caravaggio ‘Salome’ needs to go across from the Gentileschi ‘Salome.’”

“The ladies holding heads on plates?”

Laughing, “Yeah, the ladies holding heads on plates.”

It took them about thirty more minutes, but finally after a few errors in judgement, they were able to align the paintings, and the door at the far end of the room clicked. They walked towards the exit, but Piers took a moment to look back and scan each of the paintings. Chris watched as he gave a glance at all of them, his eyes spending at least a few seconds on each of the paintings in the room. Chris felt a sense of calm in the moment, something he couldn’t explain. A part of him enjoyed sharing what he knew with Piers, and he liked the way that he would look at the paintings and listen as they tried to solve the puzzle. Maybe there was something in the quality time of it, even in the gallery of a madman. 

“Like I said. You get used to it after a while”.

“I don’t get it, but I’m glad we figured it out,” Piers replied. “Maybe someday you can show me a museum. I haven’t been to one since I was a little kid.”

“Let’s stop some terrorist hellbent on releasing yet another deadly virus on the world first.”

“More of the same thing, right, sir?”

Chris checked the ammo in the MP-AF’s magazine and reloaded it before nodding. A stir at the end of the hall, and they were running to their next objective.

*All Exterior Dark or: Made in Heaven*

[All Exterior Dark](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a5dz3BDY9PY)

The keys hit the carpeted ground with a dull thud. He took a knee to pick them up, frantically flipping through the mass trying to find the right one for the lock again. Standing up, he heard the door unlock, and it creaked open.

“Chris? What are you doing here?” Piers asked as he looked up and down the hall.

“I...you didn’t answer your phone, and, and I was…,” he stammered through.

Piers reached out, his hand on Chris’s face, “Hey, it’s okay. Are you okay?”

It was too tight, Chris knew it, but he couldn’t help himself, the thought of what he might have found, it was too much. He felt Piers’s hand on his back, the younger man’s fingers clenching into the fabric of his shirt. A subtle indication, Piers might not have known what was wrong, but he knew there was something that needed tending.

When Chris gave him some air, Piers led him into his apartment and shut the door behind them, locked it, and turned the lights on in the living room. Chris could see the sleep in his eyes, Piers’s medications always made him groggy at night, even a year into taking them. A big yawn, his hand reaching to cover most of it.

“Talk to me,” Piers said as he rubbed his eyes, first left, then right. “You’re supposed to be at a conference right now.”

This was the first moment Chris had to think about it. Before he’d just been running on some instinct, an immediate need to check and make sure things were alright. Now he was embarrassed just thinking about it. All this fuss.

“Spill it, Cap.”

‘Cap’ and ‘Captain’ started to creep back into his lexicon a few months ago. It ceased when Piers was discharged from the BSAA after Lanshiang. The creature ripping Piers’s arm completely off, the tourniquet just enough to stave off blood loss. Barely making it out of the lab before it exploded, the B.O.W. taken with it. Piers pale, lifeless, on the floor of the escape pod. Before it was only used to call out their initial inability to reconnect, Chris taking responsibility for the mistake that lost Piers his arm. Now it was reclaimed, something affectionate, something mended. The term of endearment was still a rarity, but it always caught Chris pleasantly by surprise.

“Sleep then? We can talk about it in the morning,” Piers suggested.

“I had a bad dream,” Chris finally said.

Piers scanned his face, a little look of concern, the kind that screamed someone didn’t drive three hundred miles in the dead of night from a conference they were presenting at just because of a bad dream. That anticipation they had for each other. Sometimes it was great, and other times it made bluffing and half-truths an impossible mess.

“That you hurt yourself,” Chris explained, “and it was so real, and I couldn’t get to you in time, and when I woke up and tried calling you, you didn’t answer your phone. It just went straight to voicemail, so I called Jill, but she’s out of town, and so is Claire, and I couldn’t reach you and just, I got really scared. Real scared.”

“So you got in your car and drove all the way here?”

“What else was I going to do?”

A worried smile, both sad and impressed somehow, gently written on his face. Piers reached over and gave Chris a soft kiss on the cheek, maneuvered so he was straddled across his lap and wrapped his arm around his neck; a slight pressure, a tight hug. Chris held onto him with everything he had. Tension and stress seeping out, a little weep, maybe of relief, certainly of joy, restraint when he was scared, hands gripped tight to the wheel as he drove down the interstate thirty over the speed limit.

“Bed, please,” Piers said.

Not letting go, Chris stood, Piers still clutched to his chest, and he navigated the small apartment to the bedroom on memory and reflex.

His hand slid across the sheets, an empty space, cold. The sun was bright, and he felt like he’d been hit by a truck. The clock said it was noon, but they’d been up talking until dawn; he wasn’t exactly sure what time they went to sleep. Chris smelled something cooking, a lingering scent of coffee with it, and so he got out of bed and made his way towards the kitchen.

Piers cracked the eggs and lowered them into the oil, and then he pulled the kettle of hot water off the stove in one motion and started pouring it into a metal french press on the counter. It only took him a year to be a better cook than Chris. Some part of him was jealous at how quickly Piers could pick things up, but that jealousy was always snuffed out. His boyfriend’s ability for self-reliance and perseverance was far too impressive for jealousy.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Piers said. “I already called the coordinator for the event and told them you got sick and had to leave. They were disappointed but understood. I told them you’d try to make the next one.”

Chris sunk into Piers, hands digging under his shirt, not even flinching when the oil popped and a little splash landed on his arm. He felt Piers’s head slowly rub against his own, their ears mashing slightly, Chris breathing Piers in, a little sweat from a warm evening, of salt and dish soap where he washed his hand after handling the eggs.

“How are you feeling?” Piers asked.

“Good. Tired,” Chris responded, a little gruff, clearing his throat.

“Let’s take a nap later.”

Chris grunted as some form of affirmation. A soft chuckle from Piers before he stood up straight and flipped one of the eggs. He never cracked the yolks.

The clothes Chris had left over in the apartment were all dirty. Piers admitted that laundry was overdue and apologized, but he said there was a shirt or two hanging in the closet. It’d be a look, but at least a button down shirt was better than driving across the city just to get a change of clothes. Chris agreed, and so he went to the closet, opened it, and started rifling through. He found the floral print shirt Piers wore on their first date, though find was the wrong word.

Next to one of his own shirts, he found something he hadn’t seen in a long time. The patches were worn, and the collar was a little bent. Everything else in Piers’s closet was well pressed, put in a specific order, but this, his old BSAA jacket, looked out of place.

“Hey Piers,” Chris called.

Piers came into the bedroom with a piece of toast in his mouth and an inquisitive look on his face.

“I haven’t seen this in a while,” he said as he pulled the jacket out of the closet and presented it.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about it, honestly. Someone sent it to me a few months ago. Apparently, they cleaned out my locker at HQ and gave most of the stuff to my parents after Lanshiang. Someone found it hanging up in an evidence closet or something? I don’t know. They gave it back to me, and I haven’t really known what to do with it since,” Piers said. A shrug, “You know me and the BSAA. I may hate it, but I just don’t have the heart to throw it away. Maybe one day I’ll want to wear it again, but until then, it can keep hanging with the other clothes I’m too sentimental to get rid of.”

A clear enough answer, Chris looked it over again and then hung it back where he found it. He changed his shirt and made it to Piers just as he shoved the rest of the toast in his mouth. As Chris brushed a few crumbs from his face, Piers said, “What? I wanted those there,” mouth full, only the third and fifth word completely intelligible.

“Thanks for taking care of me last night.”

“Sorry I let my phone die. I could have saved you a trip.”

A kiss on the cheek, a kiss over his right eye, tip of the nose, then mouth. Chris’s thumb caught a little saliva at the edge of Piers’s lip, grazing just below, feeling his chin before he pulled him in again. Hips brushing together, hand down Piers’s back, into the elastic waist of his plaid boxer-briefs.

Piers’s left hand started at the buttons of the shirt Chris had just put on; all of them undone, his hand moved behind Chris’s head, fingers threaded through his hair, a little pinch of his earlobes, a seemingly innocuous spot, but a spark of chills. Hairs on end, goosebumps across his arms.

“You trying to start something?” Chris said.

“Just following the signals.”

The shirts fell to the ground in a lump next to the underwear. His fingers pressed into Chris’s back, his eyes followed as Chris kissed his chin, his collar, his peck, stomach then hip. Piers wanted to send a signal? Chris gave a lick to the inside of his thigh, slowly dragging his stubble up his leg, Piers locking slightly, fingers clenching the sheets, a small smile before….

“Piers? I’m coming in!” A voice said from the front of the apartment.

“Shit!” Chris said, throwing the boxer-briefs right into Piers’s face.

“Ow. Watch where you’re throwing shit.”

“Chris said he thought you might be in distress, so I tried to get back as quickly as I could,” Jill Valentine said as she walked into the bedroom.

“I’m fine,” Piers said, legs crossed to hide as much as he could, the buttons on the shirt he was wearing were misaligned.

“I ended up driving back to check on him myself. Sorry, I completely forgot to let you know,” Chris grimaced as he pulled at the collar of the t-shirt he was wearing.

They didn’t need her smirk and cocked right eyebrow to know. They certainly didn’t need her to say, “Chris, you’re shirt’s looking a little tight” for them to realize they’d put on the wrong clothes, and their size difference was never so obvious.

When they’d finally gotten Jill to stop laughing and leave (Piers taking the time to thank her for cutting her trip short to check on him), the mood was gone, but a few playful kisses found their way as they traded clothes.

And suddenly, “Your month-to-month right now, yeah?”

“Right,” Piers said with a smile. “Why?”

“Well, my lease is up at the end of next month, and so I was just wondering if, I don’t know, you wanted to get a bigger place. Together?”

Piers’s eyes were a little brighter than normal. 

“You can say no. I just realized that I didn’t even hesitate about last night when I got in my car and started driving. All I could think about was you, and making sure that you were okay, and how scared I was. I don’t think I’ve felt like that for someone before, so moving in together seems like a reasonable step. And maybe I’m just riding the emotional whatever I was feeling yesterday but….”

“I’ll start looking,” Piers said.

“You will?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay. Me too.”

The viewings started the following week. Tacky carpet was out. Balconies were in. Piers would sit on the counter in his old place when he waited for things to bake and broil, so he tested out counter tops which eliminated a few places that didn’t provide enough space. Chris wanted a spare bedroom for Claire to be able to spend the night when she came into town. Piers wanted a tub. Chris was fine being a little further out of the city, and Piers obliged. Vaulted ceilings. Maybe a fireplace?

A match, and they agreed. A lease was signed, and their belongings packed. Slowly but surely, they broke down box after box, shelves filled, furniture arranged, bedroom set, and guest room squared away.

“Hey Chris? Have you seen that old BSAA jacket? I can’t find it anywhere, and I know I packed it with the rest of the stuff from my closet.”

“I haven’t seen it,” Chris said, turning fast but he knew the gambit wouldn’t work.

“You’re lying,” Piers said.

“Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. Did you get rid of it without asking? I know I said I wasn’t going to wear it, but I wasn’t ready to get rid of it.”

Chris shook his head. He’d planned to hang the clothes in the closet but apparently didn’t get there fast enough. Trying again, Chris said that he was just getting it cleaned for Piers, wanted it to be there when he might be ready to wear it again, but Piers was too sharp for another lie. He had Chris’s number, much to Chris’s chagrin.

“Just, just trust me, okay?”

“Okay,” Piers said as he walked back towards the bedroom.. “I wish you’d asked me first, whatever it is you did with it.”

“Shit,” Chris muttered when he was left alone.

A small point of contention, but certainly not enough to stall their excitement for moving in together, the jacket always hung at the periphery, but never quite made it back into their actual conversation. His plan should come to fruition in less than a week. If only he’d been more proactive about the clothes when they were unpacking, the argument probably could have been avoided all together.

Finally though, Chris came home before Piers. He carried a large box, nicely wrapped, and put it on the kitchen table. He looked at it, a sort of trepidation, that maybe he should have asked Piers before he’d done something to the jacket, but the moment he saw it hanging in the closet, the moment he felt he wanted to be with Piers, that moving in together felt right, how tightly he squeezed him when he knew he was safe after the nightmare, Chris had made up his mind. All the other boxes had been unpacked. Just one left to go.

The lock opened, he turned to face Piers as he walked into their apartment. Chris smiled. Their apartment.

Piers walked over and gave Chris a kiss. Chris stepped out of the way so Piers could see the gift.

“A clean jacket?” Piers asked with a little laugh.

“Yeah,” Chris said. “Open it.”

Piers shrugged, a little annoyed, but he pulled the wrappings off as he said, “It’s not really a gift if someone knows what’s inside.”

The top of the box pulled off, Piers looked at the contents. It was still his green jacket, his last name was over the right peck, the patches on the side. Piers pulled it out of the box and slung it over his arm to take to the bedroom. He stopped as it folded over. Piers turned back to look at Chris.

“It was probably a bad idea, and you’re right, I should have asked, but I just got wrapped up in the moment when I thought of it, so I didn’t think to run it by you,” Chris said.

Pier flipped the jacket and laid it out on the kitchen table, the back on full display. It had been embroidered. Made in Heaven across the top, an angel posed with a bomb in her hand and more below her feet.

“Claire and I have them, and, well, I wanted you to have one, too. I know things have changed with the BSAA, but you, me, and that jacket have some history.”

Chris helped Piers slip it on, a tear or two caught on the sleeve as he wiped his face.

“I hope you like it,” Chris said. “Next time, I’ll ask.”

“No. I love it,” Piers said. “I love you, too.”

Over the course of their relationship, Chris continued to be impressed with how strong and confident Piers had become. How hard he fought for himself after Lanshiang. Chris couldn’t help but love him. Chris couldn’t help but want to spend the rest of his life with him. Chris didn’t tell him that the engagement ring was in the left pocket. They knew where to be for each other when they needed, and they could tell when the other was lying or something was wrong, just in a glance. Chris wanted to do something that Piers really didn’t see coming, so he started timing how long it took him to find the ring.

After two hours, he couldn’t stand it any longer and screamed for Piers to check his left pocket.

“I knew it was in there from the start, I just wanted to see how long it’d take you to crack,” Piers said before a pillow smashed against his face.

“Is that a yes?”

“Obviously, Captain.”

“Obviously,” Chris repeated with a laugh.

*Sleep on The Wing or: I Hope This Message Finds You Well*

“Who’s Piers Nivans?” Claire Redfield asked over the phone.

“Haven’t I told you about him?” Chris Redfield replied.

He put the coffee he was drinking down on the table and closed the Italian magazine he was ‘reading.’ Looking at the pictures helped pass the time. He only pretended to know what the captions were saying.

“I got an email from him. Very formal. You could stand to learn a few things,” Claire said.

Chris rolled his eyes and sucked his teeth. Leave it to Claire to make him feel inadequate before 9am.

“Dear Ms. Redfield. I hope this message finds you well. I almost spit out my coffee when I read it. At first I thought he was trying to send us some donation for TerraSave, lo and behold, he was letting me know you guys made it to Italy safe and sound. I think it was the timeliest response to your boots on the ground, well, ever.”

“I’ll have to thank him for being so quick to reach out,” Chris said.

“Didn’t request it?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“I think I’d like to meet him. Is he cute?” Claire asked.

Chris could see his smile in the black coffee, and he cleared his throat to stifle the expression. Chris relented that Nivans certainly drew people’s attention.

“Yours?” Claire said, and he could see her sincerity in the tone of her voice.

“He’s my lieutenant.”

When they ended their call, Chris didn’t know exactly how to react. A part of him felt like it was a violation of his space to have his lieutenant reach out to his sister directly, especially when Piers didn’t know her email address. How did he get it? It was also the fact that he’d taken it upon himself to reach out on Chris’s behalf. It didn’t sit right, but at the same time, there was relief in knowing he wouldn’t have to reach out to Claire himself.

After a few more hours in Milan, he got on the train to return to a BSAA operations base out of Bologna. The trip would take a little under an hour. With time to spare, he sent a message to Piers, a quick heads up that the two of them would need to have a talk when he returned to base, that Claire had told him about an email he sent. Piers’s reply was swift: confirmation, apology, understanding. Piers offered a ride from the train station back to base. What was an hour or so walk was only a fifteen minute drive. Chris accepted.

Piers was still relatively new, but he’d been around long enough that Chris felt a tinge of sadness that Claire didn’t know who he was. Had he not spoken to her in so many months? Piers had been with him in Philosophy University. They hadn’t spoken before Australia? That probably wasn’t good. A pretty big stress on the probably. Maybe he needed to thank Nivans a little before berating him. 

Chris was notoriously bad at keeping up with Claire. She knew how he felt responsible for her getting wrapped up with Raccoon City, with Umbrella. His inaction, his decision not to be fully honest about where he was going after everything happened, it’s what brought her into the destruction of the city. It’s what got her into her work with TerraSave. It’s what kept them at arm's length, even as they grew older, tried to see more of each other, and made it a point to talk far more frequently than they had before. Clearly, he’d been slipping back into bad habits.

The announcement that the train was reaching the end of the line chirped over the speaker. Chris grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder as he waited with the other passengers to get off the train. The doors opened, and the crowd released onto the platform. Outside the station, he could see the conspicuous looking humvee and Piers sitting in the driver’s seat. He was tapping away on his phone.

“Piers,” Chris said as he wandered over to the truck.

“Oh, Captain!”

Chris couldn’t help but grimace when Piers bumped his head as he tried to get out of the humvee. As much as Chris had tried to drill into him that the BSAA wasn’t exactly the military, and thus saluting superiors left and right wasn’t necessary, the habit hadn’t quite left. He paid for his failure at unlearning the habit.

Rubbing the top of his head as he drove them down the road. Chris looked over and caught Piers glancing his way. Chris assumed he was waiting for the hammer to drop, a reprimand moments away, but maybe it was the fact he was tired, or maybe he’d just ruminated on it a bit more as the train moved to its destination; regardless, Chris wasn’t going to chastise him for what he did.

“I understand if you need to set an expectation for the other men,” Piers said.

Chris stifled a laugh, “You’ve got to lighten up, Nivans. I’m not going to make an example of you. That’s not exactly my style. Hell, if anything, it’s hypocritical.”

“Sir?”

“Let’s just say I didn’t make it very long in the military because I was an upstanding soldier. I feel like you crossed a line, but the more I think about it, the less it worries me.”

They were silent for a while, a few bumps in the road, but when they reached base, they went over operations for the next few weeks in Europe, and their working relationship continued as it had before.

[Sleep on the Wing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3UNsV5H7xxc)

“Glad to hear you made it to Buenos Aires,” Claire said a few months later over the phone.

“Nice to hear you made it to Singapore,” she said a few months after that.

“I hear Greg and his wife finally had their baby,” she sent a few days after the event.

“It’s nice to finally meet you in person,” Claire said with a beaming smile and firm shake of Piers’s hand. “I don’t think I’d even know who my brother was without you.”

“That’s not fair, Ms. Redfield. I know you and Captain Redfield speak frequently. I just fill in the gaps,” Piers responded.

“Drop the ‘Ms. Redfield’ bit, Piers. We’ve been over this a few times now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When Piers left Chris and Claire to catch up, she made eyes at the back of his head, then looked up at Chris. She gave him a small punch in the arm and said, “That guy’s got your number.”

“What do you mean?” Chris asked.

Claire shrugged as she took her bags and started walking towards the hotel the BSAA had rented for leave. Claire purchased her own room for a few days to spend with Chris in Paris while they returned for a briefing before heading out to Poland for a routine meeting with the European Branch. Chris was often invited (involved himself was more appropriate) to meetings with other parts of the BSAA to see how things were running. He and Jill Valentine used to do these sorts of things together, but after Africa...she passed the torch to Piers. 

But at dinner, he….

“Some of the pictures you’ve sent are the best I’ve seen of Chris in years. I didn’t realize he could be so photogenic,” Claire said as she took a sip of the aperitif. 

“Just a few things I figured you’d like from some of our downtime on missions, not to mention the other guys like posing for them, too. I’ll have you know, I tried to make sure they keep their obscene gestures to a minimum. I always tell them they’re going to the Captain’s sister. It usually settles them down a little.”

“I’m a big girl, Piers. I can handle a few hand gestures,” Claire said with a wink.

“Piers is kind enough to keep me updated about everything going on with you, too. He always reminds me to give you a call to check in.”

“Our personal liaison,” Claire said.

“I know it’s hard on Chris, so if I can take something off his plate, I’m happy to do it.”

Snapped to attention wasn’t exactly it, but there was a look, it was swift, but it was more confused than alert. Piers was usually pretty formal, and even more so around guests, so the fact that he said Chris made it feel even more…?

“What do you mean?” Claire asked.

“Oh, nothing, had a little too much to drink,” Piers said with a laugh.

They made it back to the hotel, Claire going up to her room, and Chris and Piers heading to their respective rooms as well, but before they parted ways, Chris grabbed a hold of Piers’s arm. Piers swayed a little as he turned. They’d both imbibed a shot too much.

“Everything alright, Captain?” Piers asked. His eyes were a little bloodshot, and he had a goofy smile.

“Yeah,” Chris said, brow soft, face concerned. “Why did you say that it was hard for me to talk to my sister?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that, sir. Just, just something I’d noticed, something you mentioned a few times,” Piers said.

Chris let go of his arm, realizing he’d been holding onto it for an uncomfortable amount of time. He asked, “Then what did you mean? I’m curious.”

“You always said you’d contact her, but I noticed you never did. Then you’d talk about how hard it was not getting to see her, and how bad you were at reaching out. I assumed…, maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“Assumed what?” Chris asked, getting a little closer.

“I know you two are close, and you both have dangerous jobs, and sometimes talking over the phone, or email, it makes the distance feel even worse. I just wanted to ease the burden if I could.”

“Always got my back,” Chris said.

“Always, sir.”

The sun was bright, head pounding, Chris rolled over and checked the clock. A little pain on his lower ribs, something hard stuck between his side and the bed. Lifting slightly, he saw it, a few blinks, wiping the sleep from his eyes, the hand, the wrist, the arm, connected to Piers, snoring slightly, half his head buried between pillows.

“Fuck,” Chris said. “Piers, Piers wake up.”

Piers stirred, rolling over, everything in view, and Chris felt something, a swell, some happiness, that spark that told him that everything about the mistake they made last night wasn’t a mistake at all, but they’d have to say it was, would have to remind themselves it was. Even if this wasn’t the military, and even if it didn’t have to be as formal, there was still precedence. Chris was still a Captain, Piers his Lieutenant. Chris and Piers were there for a meeting because Chris helped start the BSAA, and they wanted his input, his sway was strong in the organization. This wasn’t. Even if they wanted to, it….

“Chris?” Piers said, a wince of pain as the words came out. “What are you doing in my,” and the realization, “fuck.”

They said it countless times, that they were drunk, that it was a mistake, that it couldn’t affect their professional relationship, that they had a job to do, that this couldn’t complicated it, whatever it was. When Claire sent a message that she was getting coffee and that the two of them should join her, Piers agreed to sit the day out and give it some space.

Clothes on, a few more minutes of conversation, and as Chris moved across the room, Piers followed him to the door. Chris reached out for the handle.

“Hey,” Piers said.

Chris’s hand lingered by the lock.

“Can the mistake end after….”

Lips, tongue, hands along lower backs, through hair, breaths in, foreheads touching, faint linger, and the feeling, growing close, again.

They pulled away, or they’d just keep going, the urge was there, the bed close, but….

Chris reached for the handle again.

“Wait,” Piers said.

“Piers, we can’t,” Chris replied, “we can’t.”

A pull of his chin, a kiss planted on his lips, slow, and then Piers stepped away, “because I needed you to know that, too.”

Chris nodded, hand still on the handle of the door, wanting so badly to stay, but he looked through the tiny space he made to make sure no one saw him leave, and he slipped out into the hall, head pounding, needing coffee, meeting Claire.

They left for Poland in a few days, and he needed his head clear and on the mission. Maybe when they got back, maybe they could...?

Then again, maybe not.

*Sweet Tides/Oakmoss or: Acts of Service / Quality Time*

Knuckles to nose. A grunt. Piers adjusted, and Chris rolled out of bed. A pretty solid hit. He went to the bathroom and turned on the light. It wasn’t bleeding, so that was worth something. Chris looked out, Piers still sound asleep, though there was some mumbling, a little more thrashing, another adjustment, and then he settled. Piers’s night terrors had come back with frequency and intensity. 

July 1st was a month away.

Last year followed a similar pattern. Stress, detachment, but more need for attention. Less talking, but more contact. Last year, Chris hadn’t thought about why until it was over. Maybe just a relapse. Piers had mentioned they were possible before, so maybe that was what it looked like. Well, wrong.

The first anniversary after everything changed, Piers was in a lab, alone, tested and tortured to see if he would ever be allowed to have a life. The second anniversary, he’d broken up with Chris to try and get some sort of grasp on what life was like alone, to make sure he could take care of himself, and he ended up being around a family that loved him but feared what propagated inside. Last year, a week after July 1st, Piers seemed like his old self: smiling, active, ready to take on some new challenge to live his life to the fullest. It was Jill asking how Piers was doing that first made Chris think about the trigger. Piers didn’t mention it, didn’t bring it up at all, so Chris hadn’t realized what day it was, or that there were signs to look for. He was more worried about the individual moments, not the time of year. Not the anniversary.

What did that mean? That Chris didn’t remember. Even if Piers tried to forget, his body wouldn’t let him. The day cemented in him now, literally, in his genes, always reminding him. Every toss and turn, and with every mutter under his breath while he slept. It was torn sinews and exposed ribs; it was…

“Cap!” Piers said as he sat up, out of breath, the sweat visible even in the dim light from the bathroom.

“Right here,” Chris said, turning the light off and heading back to bed. “You punched me while you were sleeping, so….”

“Something’s wrong.”

Blood. Pus. Skin stretched, snapping. Cracking joints, teeth clenched and falling out, shirt ripped through, pants torn away, the back seat of the car in shreds, treated by a trained BSAA hazmat team. C-virus booster, newest and top of the line for a few punctures from spines that grow from Piers’s back, from trying to get him out of the car and through the door of the BSAA research facility. Piers had nearly doubled in size on the way….

By the time they got him there, his virus concentration had reached ninety-three. A record. Previous best was eighty-nine. Chris didn’t realize four points could be so violent. He didn’t want to imagine ninety-four.

Every researcher that walked by elicited a look, some glimmer that they’d come into the reception area to talk to him, to give him an update. A few came to check his temperature, to make sure that he wasn’t mutating from the wounds he’d sustained. Chris assured them he knew what it looked like when someone succumbed to the C-virus, and they’d know if he’d lost the fight. A rapid test proved he was fine. He didn’t care about that. What about Piers?

“Chris?” 

Jill hugged him so tight, so tight that he didn’t hug back, a sudden distrust, that he didn’t call her, and that she knew something that he didn’t. 

“Jill? Why are you here?” Chris asked after a minute.

“Rebecca called me. She told me you brought Piers,” Jill replied, confusion and skepticism suddenly forming on her face, in her posture.

The door to the research wing opened and Rebecca Chambers walked out into the lobby. Chris’s neck tightened, jaw clenched, eyes red and swollen; the thought that Rebecca called Jill because she was about to tell him something and was afraid of his reaction.

Coma was the only word he thought he understood before she held out a form and a pen. Chris could hear Jill say something, but it was far away, concerned, sure, but still it didn’t make sense.

“As his Power of Attorney in situations like this, we won’t proceed with the medically induced coma without your written consent,” Rebecca repeated. “I don’t know how else to slow it down, and if I can’t get it under control, it doesn’t matter if he survives. They might try to use this as a reason to revoke….”

“Don’t even fucking say it,” Jill said. “I’d die before I let them lock Piers away.”

“Recognize that he’s a friend of mine, too. I’m on your side here. It’s why I joined the research team, to make sure I could help.”

“I’m sorry. What’s happening?” Chris asked, blinking, clearing his throat, not there but present.

“You have to make an impossible decision,” Rebecca said.

Chris looked at the form, still not taking it from her, the very thought, realizing what she was asking. Piers’s fear of the BSAA’s medical treatment, going along with it only to make sure that he was safe for the world, their fights about how he needed to stop thinking that way, Chris always annoyed that even though he’d beaten the odds, even though he finally found strength in himself, he was always more worried about the people around him. That was Piers. Now Chris had to make the choice as to whether or not the BSAA had permission to do whatever they could, wanted(?), to deal with….

“You know you can trust me, Chris. You know why I’m here. I’m not going to let them do anything to him. I’m going to keep that from happening.”

This is what they’d prepared for. This was a moment they knew was plausible, probable. Name scratched across the page and pen returned, Rebecca rushed through the doors and back into the labs.

“Come on, big guy,” Jill said as she led the near-destroyed Chris back to his seat.

They sat there, still, quiet, for at least two hours.

“Could you do me a favor?” Chris finally asked.

“Name it,” Jill responded.

“You know that Made in Heaven jacket I gave to Piers a few months ago? After, after the, um, the surgery to remove the...”

“Yeah, I know the jacket.”

“He likes to wear it when he comes here. Could you go and get it for me? I don’t want to leave, but I want him to have it when he wakes up,” Chris said.

“Got it. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

No jokes, no sarcasm, just the part of her that she was when he needed her most, their relationship often defined by their banter and inability to admit when the other was right. But Jill knew when to turn it off. Jill knew that he came to her when he needed it most because she gave it to him straight, because he told her everything, and because she’d die for him, had. Without question, it was the same for him in spades. Always had been; always would be. 

She sat in the waiting room with him the whole time.

When Piers woke up three days later, he wore the jacket out of the facility and made it a point to ask who destroyed the backseat of their car. Chris laughed until he couldn’t stop crying. It was a terrible joke, but he couldn’t help being overwhelmed, thankful, that Piers made it,could.

The basis for hope that this would never happen again was a device that Rebecca thought of in a pinch. A reprogrammed insulin pump. A steady stream of the vaccine that Piers used to regulate his infection, a simple set of instructions with it. Rebecca assumed that Piers getting used to the system would manifest in a higher than normal virus concentration for the next few weeks. His body was accustomed to large doses all at once, but this should allow him to forgo the shock to his system that she believed might have caused his spikes to begin with. Highs and lows turned to stability and regulation. She explained how to bolus if he started noticing an upward trend, and then they were alone, something new to learn, another layer for Piers to cope with.

Chris didn’t sleep much. Hadn’t since the night it happened, going on four days now. Vivid dreams pervaded any opportunity for rest, one in particular of Piers harming himself, succumbing to his PTSD, a dream so intense that Chris had to wake Piers just to make sure he was still breathing. In his weakened state, it didn’t take Piers long to fall asleep again, but Chris certainly wasn’t going to get back to sleep any time soon.

He went to the kitchen table, flipped on the light, and read the instructions for the pump six or seven times.

Chris awoke to the smell of fried eggs and coffee, somewhere between sullen and deja vu. There was a blanket across his shoulders, another on his lap, and a pillow under his head. He’d fallen asleep at the table. Piers, shaking a little, but at least stable, stood at the stove. He cracked another egg into the skillet with one hand, and he poured boiling water in the french press with the other. In a short time, he’d become a better cook than….

It felt like this had happened sometime recently: Chris upset, comforted by Piers, breakfast, just like this. Perhaps thoughts or dreams he’d since forgotten?

“Oh, you’re awake. Sorry, I didn’t have the stamina to drag you to the bedroom, so the pillow and blanket at the table was the best I could do,” Piers said. 

His hands shook so badly, Chris had to take the scalding coffee from him and get a paper towel to wipe down the floor. He put Piers at the table, a wince when he sat down, the cannula for the pump getting caught on the side of the table as they tried to maneuver him into the chair, and the injection side was ripped from Piers’s left side.

“Shit, sorry,” Chris said.

The eggs burned in the time that it took them to get the injection site set up again, the pump beeping incessantly while they did it. 

“Why’s it doing that?”

“It doesn’t detect a site, so it’s letting us know.”

Piers’s hand, a brush through Chris’s hair. The site set up, the meter reading out his virus concentration in real time, new eggs in the skillet (Chris had to use both his hands), and by the time breakfast was ready, Piers was asleep in his blankets, head on the pillow at the kitchen table. Chris ate alone and fixed Piers some toast when he woke up an hour later with an upset stomach and no appetite.

[Oakmoss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y2eGEIHomtI)

Two weeks of a virus concentration in the sixties, no appetite, no will to move, and barely the ability to speak. Calls and house visits from Rebecca gave Chris little solace. She was able to download the data from the pump directly which gave her fast, accurate readings over a wide array of data points. Her analysis was far from encouraging. Her assumption was these two weeks in the sixties would more likely have been two weeks in the nineties without the pump. Undoubtedly, Piers’s body was still getting used to the change in application of the vaccine, but that night he was taken to the BSAA research facility, according to the data, according to Rebecca, wasn’t going to be an isolated incident.

“I honestly think this is working. We’ve got a low sample size, but you being frightened of this state, I think the pump is keeping him from something worse. I know you’re scared. I know he’s scared, but I think we’re onto something here,” Rebecca said.

Chris could never hide a smile when she gave her patented thumbs up. Her presence was calming. Always was. As much as it hurt, as much as he wanted something more definitive, he did trust Rebecca. And right now, he was trusting her with the love of his life.

Was the lead up to July 1st always going to be a mess? When Piers proposed to Chris, Chris knew he was going to spend the rest of his life with him. July 1st was always going to be a reminder now. It was always going to be there. Chris never thought he’d wish it was just depression and night terrors, but here they were.

“How’re you holding up?” Jill asked when she sat on the couch across from him. 

“Fine. Thanks for checking in,” Chris said.

“I was worried. I hadn’t heard from you in the past week, and I figured it was the least I could do.”

They spoke casually. A few ribs here and there, and she pointed out a particularly wide smile he tried to stifle. Chris was glad she was there, willing to come over and just be in their home. It made it feel a little lighter. Piers was still in no condition for guests, so the door to the bedroom was cracked in case he called out or the pump beeped because of a rise in virus concentration, but for the most part, he was quiet.

Chris let out a breath along with, “I’m thinking marrying Piers is a mistake.”

He’d say she was shocked, the concern he already knew turned to a worry he hadn’t seen in a while, and she cracked her neck to give herself a moment to think. Jill’s eyes refocused on him and she asked, “Why?”

“Same reason you never wanted to get married,” he said.

“Bold of you to assume I’m not married.”

“Shut up. You’d tell me.”

“Bold of you to assume I would,” she said as her eyebrow piqued, and she sucked her teeth. “What if I told you I’d reconsidered that conversation?”

Chris gave her a little smile before, “Oh?”

“Maybe I’m worth a little more than my personal guilt. I sure as shit know I’m stronger than Wesker. Maybe I should follow Claire’s advice and Piers’s lead: Give myself a little credit. Maybe I’m not anything other than what I should be,” Jill said. “Salt and sarcasm and me. Doesn’t make me any less deserving of what I want. It’s hard to realize that there’s more to life than being a survivor. We aren’t afforded time out of that mindset very often, but sometimes being afraid of different shit is a good thing.”

“I’m so scared right now, Jill. All I can think is he needs someone better equipped for this shit than me,” Chris said. “I’ve never been afraid like this before. I’ve always had this feeling that I could get to a person if I needed to, that I have the resources to protect the people I love. Claire in Antarctica and Tortuga. When I found out you were alive in Africa, there was no question about my priorities. Fighting to get Piers out of the research facility when he made it back, the lake house. But this, watching him in there, fever for two straight weeks, writhing in pain, any minute something new or worse happening. Merah hurt, my men in Edonia and China hurt, but there was something that I had to do and so I just carried them with me. But this? This, this waiting?”

“Whatever that feeling is, the feeling that just made you say that shit to me, that’s something you need to square up and figure out with Piers. If you’re in this, and I know you really are despite whatever lapse is happening, now’s the time to dig in your heels.”

A hopeful thought, a ray of optimism, and a chance to dig in, to show Piers, to change it, to disrupt July 1st. Perhaps something selfish buried in there, a need to look forward to something, a chance to look past today or tomorrow. A point. A celebration.

“If I threw a party, would you come?”

“If I’m not busy,” Jill said, lips pursed, a sly smile hidden by a tilt of her head.

~~

“What are you doing July 1st?” Chris said.

“I’m assuming you asking me means Piers is doing okay? Don’t have anything planned, though. Why?” Claire asked.

“Can you fly into town? You can stay with us while you’re here.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I want to throw a little get together for Piers, and I hope you can be there.”

“Please, already booked the ticket.”

~~

“Chris? I haven’t talked with you for ages,” Sheva said.

“If I bought you a plane ticket and a hotel room, could you be here on July 1st?”

“What? I mean, probably, but what?”

~~

“Hey, is this Sophy Home. I know it’s been a while,” Chris said.

“Chris Redfield. I haven’t heard your voice in a bit. Congrats on your engagement.”

“Yeah, well, I knew you and Piers still spoke occasionally, and I’m trying to get something together for him. I was wondering, if I am able to get you a ticket and a hotel room, could you fly  
to the States by July 1st?”

“That’s a heavy day to have someone come to visit.”

“I’m trying to change that.”

“I’ll certainly see what I can do.”

~~

“Did something happen?” Rebecca near shouted into the phone.

“No, no, nothing happened, but nothing’s changed. I was just seeing if you could come over for a dinner party on July 1st. If you’re not busy,” Chris said.

“July 1st? Got it in my calendar. I just want to be realistic here and….”

“Don’t worry, I told everyone it might be cancelled last minute. They all know what’s happening. Everyone still wanted to be there.”

“That’s unsurprising to me.”

~~

There were moments of clarity, but those moments were still hazy, shaken, and weak. They would change the site for his pump together, and Chris would always tell him how much to bolus. They would eat together when Piers had the strength to sit up, but most of what he could keep down was toast and smoothies. He often had trouble remembering things that were happening, but he was alert enough to engage in conversation. Chris set a timer to remind himself to give Piers his PTSD meds before they went to sleep for the night.

Jill came over one day, and the two of them watched videos on how to stitch pockets and loops into waistbands to hold insulin pumps and cannula, to cut down on the chance of breaking them or ripping out a site. After a few mishaps, Chris wasn’t interested in seeing it happen again, pain mitigated wherever he could. A few days later, and nearly all of Piers’s pants had a space specifically for the device.

Chris occupied himself with what to make for the party, what drinks to serve, and even what to wear. Regardless of whether it would happen or not, Chris wanted it to be as close to perfect as possible, so he planned and planned. Quiet, and not to disturb Piers while he slept, Chris would go through their closet and look at what he might want to wear. Maybe something a little formal? Maybe not. He only had a few ties, and he could barely make a windsor knot to save his life. Moving coats to the side, a small paper crinkled in the breast pocket of an old blazer, one he hadn’t worn in at least three years. He found an old letter inside, an evaluation for Piers right before Edonia. Chris wasn’t sure why he saved it, but he slipped it into his bedside table. Top marks, all across the board. It would be fun to show Piers when he was feeling better. 

He finally settled on an outfit. If only he could pull off a suit as vivid as Piers’s floral print one, but he wasn’t sure he had it in him.

Then the next day, it happened, stirred awake by the sound of Piers laughing in the kitchen, out of bed, strength in his voice. He could tell he was talking to Claire, giving her an update and scolding Chris for not keeping her as informed as he should. 

“Always leaving it to me to let you know what’s going on,” Piers said. “Yeah, I love you, too. You really need to come into town sometime soon, but for now, I’m going to make some breakfast. I could eat a horse.”

Piers was pouring coffee into two mugs. He was wearing the Made in Heaven jacket. Chris couldn’t help but sink into him after he watched him light the stove with a snap of his fingers. He didn’t even flinch when a little bit of oil popped and landed on his arm.

“Morning,” Piers said, sounding strong in his chest and alert. 

They ate breakfast, Piers’s hearty, his face content when he shoveled the last of the eggs in his mouth, finished off with toast.

“How are you feeling, Cap?” he asked, a gentle smile.

He’d started calling Chris _Captain_ and, more affectionately, _Cap_ again after years of it being relegated to their time at the lake house. Then, it was a reminder of their inability to reconnect, but now it was….

“Tired, and maybe some deja vu, but I’d rather it than anything else right now,” Chris said. “How are you?”

“Tired, too, but I feel like a million bucks comparatively. Why don’t we take a nap later? We don’t really have anywhere to be, so it might do us some good,” Piers offered. “Last I actually remember sleeping next to you, I think you told me I punched you in the face. Promise I won’t do it this time.”

Chris smiled, the first time in what felt like ages, that Piers would remember that of all things from weeks ago.

Fuck, he loved Piers Nivans.

Chris scooped him up out of the chair, slung him over his left shoulder.

“What’s gotten into you?” Piers shouted as he adjusted slightly and flopped around, his laughter contagious.

“You. Just you,” Chris said, knowing full well he probably should have been more cautious with Piers just now feeling better, but….

Tossed on the bed, the frame giving a little creak, Piers stretched slightly, his stomach visible as his shirt rode up. Chris rolled his eyes; Piers’s fake stretch to show off his stomach drew an affectionate ire. He took it upon himself to pull the shirt off before removing his own. Hands on the side of Piers’s face, looking into his hazel eyes, seeing a serene trust. A deep kiss, long and loving, tasting of black coffee and a hint of wheat toast.

Chris’s hands felt down Piers’s body, warm, goosebumps where he touched his sides, near his hip bones; innocuous for most, but a trigger for Piers. He held here for a moment, kisses on each side, a little drag of his stubble over sensitive areas, a lick. Piers’s legs growing tighter near Chris’s shoulders, a reflex he’d missed. 

Fingers into the waistband of Piers’s pajama pants, about to pull, but instead he retrieved the pump and made sure Piers’s concentration was good before he wiggled the device slightly. He tapped the injection site on Piers’s left side.

“Oh, forgot about it,” Piers said, hand to the spot and removing the needle from his skin.

He placed the device on the bedside table as Chris slid the pants and boxerbriefs off. More kisses to the inside of his thighs, another spot, little snips of air, laughs and ticklish. Getting hard and feeling good; feeling connected and in the moment. Chris kicked his pants to the side, getting onto the bed, one hand just below Piers’s arm, the other near his head. Piers adjusted, leaned up, kissed, got his legs around Chris’s lower back, staring intently, a soft glow. Fingers giving a gentle squeeze to Chris’s earlobes, a bite, a lick, and chills through his body. The signal passed.

Tight, skin to skin, a while since the last time, Piers’s fingers on his shoulders, his right hand behind Chris’s neck, a deep inhale, long breath out. Slow at first, getting used to it again, finding each other. Kissing, getting warm. A little sweat forming at the line-up on Piers’s haircut. His eyes matching with Chris’s. His hips following the rhythm. Faster now, all the way in, full. Again, feeling each other, hotter now, sweaty now, close, tight grip, hands clenching the sheets, Piers’s fingers gripping his hair, then release, tense and squeezed, a collapse, still, loosening, as Piers held all of him, legs wrapped around him, arms around his back, stroking his forehead, breathing, eyes closed.

They slept the entire afternoon, and they slept all night. It was the first full night's sleep Chris got in a month. A moment to breathe, time to clean before Claire arrived for the party, failed attempts at staving off Piers’s curiosity for the sudden need to make the apartment look as perfect as possible. Then it was just a day, then it was the morning of, friends from around the world arriving, things feeling normal. Maybe he could pull this off. Maybe July 1st could be something reclaimed, reclaimed like the BSAA jacket, reclaimed like Captain. 

“Chris,” Piers said through gritted teeth….

It felt the same, but this time, Claire was sitting next to him. Chris was pale, staring at the door past the reception area, waiting for Rebecca to come out with her clipboard and pen, to give another speech, to remind him of his Power of Attorney.

“It’s stupid to worry, right? It wasn’t like a month ago. He didn’t even shift at all, no pops or….”

Claire’s hand clenched his shoulder tightly.

“No matter what I’ve done these past few weeks, things just feel like they’ve happened before. Every day just bleeding into the next, every day terrified this would happen, that I’d be here again, and now I am. Should I be surprised? My life is just a loop of cranks, and booby trapped art galleries, and stained glass, and masks, and losing people.”

“You haven’t lost him yet,” Claire said.

“But it feels like I have, somewhere else, that’s what this whole month has felt like, that there are so many other horrible things that could have happened, or could still happen. Like, jesus, what if I’d just picked up a phone and called you in 1998 and said I was flying to Europe because I decided that was the best option to stop a corrupt pharmaceutical conglomerate. Do you ever feel like I ruined your life?”

“Clearly you’re spiraling, I have an inkling of where this is going, but I’ll let you continue for a moment,” she said.

“If I could just communicate like a normal fucking adult, maybe you wouldn’t be stuck in this shit. No Raccoon City, Rockfort, no T-phobos, no Tortuga.”

Claire cracked all the knuckles on her left hand then switched to her right. A nerve struck. Chris started to feel some of the worry for Piers shift to himself.

“To start, we’re going to have this conversation once, and once only, do you understand?”

Chris nodded.

“Do I wish you’d taken the time to pick up the phone and tell me what you were doing in 1998? Sure. A lot of our lives can be summed up by what happened in 1998. It’s easy to dwell on it. It’s easy to feel guilty for me, and for Jill, and for yourself, and for Piers, but don’t you dare amount my struggles, successes, and life on you not picking up the phone and calling me when you flew off to Europe one day. My ass got on the bike. My ass fought through Raccoon City. My work is my work, and I understand you’re in crisis right now, but that doesn’t get to define me.”

Quiet shame smeared across his face as he turned away.

“No, look at me,” she said.

He did.

“Did you think this was going to be easy? When has it ever been fucking easy, Chris? When has it stopped you?”

“I’ve just been so afraid, Claire.”

“Then you need to tell him that.”

“This isn’t about how I’m feeling, though.”

“Bullshit, Chris. Bullshit! You’ve taken the time to jump through the mental hoops to attribute my entire life to one of your failures in communication. I’m sure you can figure out a way to tell your fiance you’re scared to death of him dying. If you’re frightened, then you need to tell him. If you’re not sure what you’re doing or feeling, tell him,” a beat before, “Jesus, I’ve never been this angry at you before. Not even when you didn’t pick up the phone to call me, thus setting off a string of events that completely ruined my life.”

A snicker, “God, I’m a fucking asshole.”

“You’re a man, so you just assume everything revolves around you. Look at how that worked out with you and Jill, thinking all her problems were from you ‘letting’ her throw herself out a window. Let people be proud of all the terror they’ve conquered. Be willing to own up to your own terror and tell Piers that you’re not okay, and that it’s okay that you aren’t. Also pay up. The amount of free therapy I’ve given you and Piers over the years, I should be sponsored by your wedding. No gifts; donate to our therapist, Claire Redfield.”

“I won’t try to take credit for your life again.”

“Better not. I can’t be held responsible for what’ll happen if you do.”

“Deal. Can I ask you a favor, and send you off to our place to set up for the party? I’d like to think it’s still happening,” Chris said. “I spent a lot of money flying people from across the world to be here for it.”

“Two people. You flew two people here. Don’t try to make yourself sound impressive; you’re still in hot water and I’m not giving you any leeway. Also, add not buying me a plane ticket for this little shindig to my list of grievances.”

She gathered her things, pulled her phone out to check the time, and slipped her coat on. She stooped down, gave him a kiss on the crown of his head, and took a knee. A stern look, a solid nod: “He’s going to be okay, and I’m going to see you back in your apartment before the lovely party you’re throwing him starts, and he’ll be a little tired but so excited to see everyone there. And we’ll celebrate him being here, and you two being together.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

Her steps echoed down the hall, the whir of the automatic door opening as she left the building and headed for her rental. With nowhere for his stress to go, and the bounce in his knees slowing, Chris found himself drifting in the waiting room. Eyes keeping open for another fifteen minutes before his head sunk. No dreams, too tired for that, no distraction from the sound of the door, from researchers coming in and out, some recruits and BSAA members there for check ups, some probably too aware that Captain Chris Redfield was the guy slumped over in the waiting room chair.

But then his fingers curled around someone’s hand, instinctive, every ridge known, knuckles familiar, trimmed nails, and worn calluses from pull ups. It was his right hand, a sigh of relief.  
Chris opened his eyes and saw Piers looking over at him.

“How long was I out?” Chris asked.

“About two hours,” Rebecca said. “Piers is fine, and his numbers are looking good. We think the pain was from acute appendicitis from an improper diet from the last month. Hilariously, it healed on its own.”

“Still hurt like hell, though,” Piers said.

“Scared me to death,” Chris said.

“Regardless, you’re free to go. I’m sure I’ll see you both around soon, though let’s hope it’s not here.”

Another thumbs up, and another wave of ease. 

“Let’s go home,” Chris said. “I’m starting to hate this place as much as you.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” Piers laughed.

[Sweet Tides](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sRbKzumSPVw)

When they left the building, Piers started to pull Chris towards the other end of the block. Chris protested, saying the car was the other way, but Piers insisted. When he said it wasn’t like they had anywhere to be, Chris relented, not wanting to ruin the surprise and certainly having some time to spare.

They walked for a while, neither of them talking, just holding hands, standing close, until finally Piers stopped in front of a building, the city’s art museum.

“What are we doing here?” Chris said.

“I specifically remember us talking about art one time, and we said we’d come to an art museum, but we never did. Now seems like a good time. I want to go on a date here, now. It’s July 1st, not my favorite day, so I want to spend it doing something with you.”

“What made you think of this?”

“I don’t know, but I did, I hope I’m not misremembering, or my grand romantic gesture’s going to feel pretty stupid,” Piers said with a laugh. “I want to spend some quality time with you. Just the two of us, doing something you enjoy.”

Chris didn’t even check his watch. They had time for this. Tickets paid, up the escalator to the first floor, and into the main gallery.

“Tell me everything,” Piers said, arm around Chris’s, holding tight.

He recanted information about impressionism, realism, and romanticism. He pointed out a painting that he’d seen in the Spencer Mansion, a part of him still wondering if it was fake, or if the one hanging in the museum was. They found a piece by Soutine that caused his fascination with art, that caused him to interrogate what it meant to be a survivor a long time ago, that reminded him being a survivor was only one part of him. He told Piers that Jill helped him remember it again this past month while they sewed pockets. Chris admitted that he didn’t quite remember talking to Piers about art before, but with every shush! they got, and with every question Piers had, Chris felt some sense of normalcy returning, that maybe he was just misremembering the moment, happier and happier that he did, making this an even better surprise.

He liked that Piers would tilt his head at every piece, as though changing the angle would reveal something new. Chris loved that Piers decided Pop Art was his favorite, his only explanation  
being that it made the most sense, but not being able to explain any further, and when the device in his waistband beeped three times, they found a bench in a secluded part of the museum and sat down.

Piers gave himself three units, situated the cannula, and put the pump back in its place like he was an old pro.

“Can I tell you something?” Chris said.

“Always, Captain,” Piers replied.

“This last month has been one of the most horrifying experiences of my life, and I know that’s absolute shit to say to you since obviously it was more horrifying for you, but I’m going to be honest with you for a minute; I considered if this was something I could do.”

Fingers interlaced, a little closer now.

“It’s not that I don’t want to marry you, or be with you, god, I do, but what if I’m not enough Piers? Hell, you had appendicitis and five minutes later came up with an idea I’ve been trying to put together for a month. You were dying and my thought was ‘I’ll change July 1st by throwing him a party.’ You remembered a conversation I barely did, and now we’re spending our time right after a hospital visit doing what I want to do on July 1st.”

“We’re supposed to be at a party?”

“They can wait,” Chris said.

“Yeah, they can. This is where we need to be right now,” Piers said. “Keep going, Chris.”

“Sometimes it feels like things just keep happening over and over again, and I try to keep going, and being with you is honestly the best thing in my life outside being Claire’s brother. If Jill asks, we lie and tell her being friends with her is better, but we all know that’s a lie and just pretend we don’t.”

Piers gave a laugh and said, “Keep going.”

“What if you died on July 1st? What if they didn’t find you, or you were stuck at the bottom of the ocean? What if today was just a different July 1st that you didn’t come home with me? I set out to break another cycle today, and all I’m doing is reminding you of why today is horrible,” and then again, “what if I’m not enough?”

Piers looked up at the painting they were sitting in front of, a woman holding a man’s head on a platter. Chris followed his gaze.

“That’s Salome,” Piers said. “I know that because you told me before we sat down. No way in a million years I’d be here if it wasn’t for you. No way I’d know Pop Art was my favorite, either. I wouldn’t have a very specific pocket at my waist to keep a new medical device I’ve got to get used to. I wouldn’t know how to use it very well because I was so out of it for the last month it’s been attached to me, but my fiance stayed up all night reading the manual. I wouldn’t know how to attach the site, but every time it was changed, my fiance went over how to do it, how to remove it, how many times I hit the plus button on the front when I needed to bolus. I didn’t know why it was beeping the first time it beeped at me, but my fiance did.”

Chris used his shirt to dry his eyes.

“We had, perhaps, the best sex we’ve ever had a few days ago, right?”

“Yeah,” Chris said through a little sob.

“Why’d you pick me up and put me over your left shoulder? You’ve done it before, but you’ve always used your right. We both know it’s your dominant side.”

“Because we’ve been putting the site on your left side.”

“And I bet you didn’t even think about it. You just knew. Same as how you reminded me to take off the pump beforehand, too,” Piers said. “You know, maybe there is some timeline where I didn’t make it. As hard as it is to think about, maybe you’ve already given me a eulogy somewhere. Maybe in another, the C-virus injection fell ten feet further and I bled out before I could get to it, or, hell, maybe we never even went to China and fought spiders in a bell tower. It doesn’t matter. We’re here right now. We’re giving a big middle finger to July 1st just by looking at art, and talking, and apparently there’s a party we should be at, too?”

“Yeah, there is,” Chris said looking over at Piers.

“I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“At the lake house, I’ll never forget, I got so mad at you, was such a piece of shit because you kept saying ‘we.’ It’ll always stick with me, but I lied to you. I see that now. We are in this together, Chris. I don’t care about what could have happened because I have to contend with what did, and the future’s always going to be scary, but we’ve already had that conversation. We’ll have to have it a few more times, I bet. If I’m going to live my life, there’s no one I’d rather be standing beside while I do it. It’s not about whether you’re enough. It’s that we chose each other, and that we’re in this together.”

“Fuck July 1st,” Chris said.

“Fuck July 1st,” Piers screamed.

_Shush!_

“We’re having a moment! I almost died today,” Piers shouted back at the group in the room.

~~

Apartment a wreck, still a little drunk from the party, full from food, from telling stories, from dancing poorly and explaining the noise to the downstairs neighbor. Old friends, introducing partners from other parts of the world. Text reassuring Jill was in her apartment, that Sophy and Sheva were safely in their hotel rooms.

Piers, Chris, and Claire cleaned up plates, washed glasses, and scrubbed pans.

“Nope,” Chris said, and Piers skipped to the next song.

“This could be a good one to dance to at your wedding,” Claire said.

“Absolutely not. We’re not from small town Nebraska,” Piers shouted as he skipped to the next one.

“If we’re going to dance to anything, I don’t want it to be traditional. I don’t want something that a million other people have picked,” Chris suggested.

“Next.”

“Maybe in another life.”

“Play that one at my funeral.”

“Pretty sure they played the soft jazz version of that one in the elevator at the museum.”

“Sounds like a church hymn.”

Stumbling over feet, a lot of Piers’s weight rested on Chris’s shoulders, though they danced, or swayed, turned slightly in their tiny kitchen. It was on a quarter turn, the song soft and kind, when Chris caught Claire looking at the two of them. There was such contentment, Chris felt pure solitude, despite the steps out of place, the drunken laughs, Piers’s face buried in his chest as they rocked back and forth to a song that probably wouldn’t be the song they danced to at their wedding. He knew she approved. Her opinion was of the highest order to him, so he was glad that she did. He knew. But Chris could see it in the way she stared at the two of them. Chris didn’t know what he’d do without her. He didn’t know what he’d do without the best friend that sat with him for three days while he waited for his fiance to wake up from a coma. Or partner that helped him save his best friend, the partner he formed an unshakable bond with. He didn’t know what he’d do without the drunken man desperately clinging to his chest, fingers clenched in the fabric of his shirt, the device at his waist giving the smallest beep.

“So, Mr. Nivans. Another near death experience survived, what’s next on your list?” Claire asked, eyes getting heavy, tact about on par with Chris.

“Rent or buy?” Piers said, looking up to Chris.

“Buy,” Chris responded.

“Bedrooms? I’m thinking four,” Piers said. “Maybe somewhere outside the city?”

“A tub would be nice,” Chris said, “and a fireplace?”

“Kids?” Claire asked.

“Yeah,” they said together, a quick glance, embarrassment. 

The pump beeped again, and they kept dancing. Claire pointed out the noise to them, and they said, in time, that it just meant the battery was getting low. After a few more songs, Claire went to sleep, Chris and Piers soon after, the apartment clean, the battery in the pump changed, July 2nd started, and July 1st reclaimed.

~~~

Maybe I survive. Maybe I don’t. Maybe you go on to work for some weird, reformed version of Umbrella, but I won’t hold my breath on that one. In one world, I own a cafe, and you order a mocha every day, but really you’re there to see me. In another, you own a flower shop, and I buy bouquets of roses, too afraid to give them to you like I tell myself I will every day.

What matters is that it’s you and me. No matter what, there’s us, and I believe the world is a little better for it, even in the worlds where we don’t meet.

Happy July 1st. Wherever we are. It’s a hell of a day in every timeline because regardless, it belongs to us. 

Fuck July 1st. Wherever we are. It belongs to us, so we can do what we want with it, regardless of everything else.

I love you, Chris Redfield. And I know you love me, too.


End file.
